


In Control

by RyMagnatar



Series: EriDave same AU collection [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:09:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with the human Dave is full of a lot more constraints than you thought before, but you don't mind. You know him as well as he knows you. You push and he pulls and together you live.<br/>That's how, when The Day comes around again, you know exactly when and where to comfort Dave the best. There's only one place where Dave let's his ingrained CoolKid facade fall, even though it's been years since either one of you were teenagers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BubbleBtch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubbleBtch/gifts).



> I got this idea from a review of my other Dave/Eridan story. I hope you enjoy this delicious little oneshot, ya'll <3

For a pretty slobbish human, Dave Strider has a lot of fuckin’ rules.

You don’t pull the shitty swords out of the microwave unless you intend to put them back. You don’t put an open bottle of apple juice back into the fridge unless you want it dumped out in case of Pranks. You don’t clean any of Bro’s posters off the wall, or his swords out of things or his left over puppets from under couch cushions. You don’t make Lil Cal face the wall. 

When Dave Strider uses you as a pillow, you can complain all you want but he won’t get up until he’s good and ready. TV stays on if he’s watching it, even if all he is doing is lounging half naked on the couch not even looking at it. Turn tables will not be touched by anyone but Dave Strider. He sleeps on the outside of the bed, never pinned against the wall and no he will not put any clothing on even if his skin sticks to yours in the heat of the broken air conditioner. You don’t take his glasses off without the chin tilt of his approval and you never try to peek past them when he’s pissed off.

If you try to get him to try your shitty beer he will peel off every lable and flick the little paper wads into your hair as you drink. If you push your fashion onto him, he will drag you to his club in a pair of his rattiest jeans, and one of his most ironically ugly shirts- and the whole night he’ll tell you how good you look and how much he wants you and throw your whole fashion sense into peril. If you wake him up from a nightmare he won’t talk about it, just lay there and holding you against his chest as he takes in too deep breaths and his arms are hot coils against your cool back. 

Dave Strider doesn’t hug.

Dave Strider doesn’t grin.

And Dave Strider _certainly_ doesn’t cry.

You are sprawled on his stupid couch, slouched down with the beer bottle resting on the flat of your stomach and your eyes watching the stupid human TV. It’s the only light source in the room, the only one you need with your night vision. It’s getting close to four in the morning, and all that is on this stupid human shit is infomercials. That’s okay because you aren’t paying attention anyway. 

You took the night off from work for a reason, even though Strider insisted you stay the fuck at home. So you wait, pissing away the time and waiting for the stupid human. 

He comes home like a thunderstorm. You can hear him banging down the hallway and the crunching metal of the lock turning under the key. He kicks open the door, brings in his gear, kicks the door shut and brings it into the spare room that’s really a closet that he uses as his sound booth. He walks into the room, sweat clinging to his shirt and smelling of alcohol. His hair is tousled and his lips are swollen and pink. 

He stares at you and you stare right back at him. The blue light of his damn TV flickers across his face and paints his cheeks with a harsh, shallow edge. “The fuck are you staring at,” his voice has more growl in it than a starved troll torn away from its first meal in weeks. 

You move your head to one side and look over the glasses you only wear now because his irony shit has grown on you and his black shades he wears day or night are now like your stupid hipster glasses you let slide down your nose because they do nothing for you. But where yours are all image, his are just as much a shield as they are an image. Calmly, though the words kind of slur and your accent always comes back now that you’re drunk-ish, “Wwhat I alwways look at wwhen you come wwanderin’ home like that, your lips.”

He licks them, drags his red little rounded tongue over his too pink lips and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”

You listen to him shucking his clothes all the way to the shower, thinking to yourself, _gonna do the laundry tomorroww,_ and waiting for him to slam the bathroom door shut. Yet he doesn’t. Then you smile.

The shower starts up and you slowly pull yourself up from the couch, put the beer on the coffee table you manage to keep clean and stretch yourself out. You pull off your pants and get a little thrill with leaving your pants on the floor beside his. Around Dave you don’t have to be dolled up, you don’t have to be clean, and you sure as hell don’t have to be, what does he call it? oh right- _little fuckin’ prissy pants with your panties in a wad over a damn sock left on the floor._

You step into the bathroom, the air thick with moisture already and warm. His glasses gleam in the soft yellow light of the single light bulb above from their place counter by the sink. You slide yours off and fold them up, propping them on the linoleum beside his. You don’t knock on the glass shower door, just pull it open and step into the little tile box. It’s no ablution trap. It’s like a shitty, lowwblood version of one that’s just a drain in the floor and a hose with a filter-head hanging down from the top. But it has a shelf where you keep your hair stuff that he borrows because he pretends could really not care less and the shit you get is high quality anyway. 

The hot water pours over his face, his chin tilted down, and it runs down his neck, his shoulders and his chest. He grunts when you step in, sliding your hands up his spine and resting them on his shoulder blades. You place a kiss to the back of his neck and he breaks.

You can feel it under your hands as his breath shakes violently in his chest and the strangled sound claws its way out of his lips. You rest your forehead against his hot lowblood skin, made hotter by the water, and slide your arms around him from behind. 

He leans against you, his back against your chest and tilts his head back. The back of his head rests on the top of yours and he lets out this heavy, painful groan. “F-fuck.”

You slide your hands low on his hips, hold him closer still. He sobs, a full body, painful thing that trembles through him and into you. You dig your claws into his hips enough to prick but not to draw blood. 

“He’s dead. He’s fucking _dead._ ” 

You move your head so his can rest on your shoulder. You kiss his ear, his jaw and whisper against his skin, “He has been for a wwhile, noww.” 

He reaches back, grabs your horn tight in his fist and twists his hand around it as he snarls your name in a warning tone. You just kiss his cheek and say the words, “He’s gone, Davve.”

He gave that loud sob again and his knees give out. You hold him up though, as his leans more against you, his body sagging, arms going limp at his sides. He then just cries, eyes squeezed shut under the pelting shower water and sobbing. You hold him, silent, waiting him out. 

The water starts losing its heat before he stops and finally he does. His head moves to the side and then he pulls away, wiping his face as he does. You slide your arms from around his hips and grab the soap. He lets you scrub him down, washing the dirt and sweat from the day, from the club, off his body. He chuckles when you insist to wash his hair and growls when you nip at his earlobe. When he turns his back to the stream, facing you, he tilts his head back and lets the water rinse his hair. You kiss his neck and when he looks at you with those deep scarlet eyes, you see his wordless apology. 

You roll your eyes and press a kiss to the corner of his already kissed mouth, “I get it. Tonight you wwant to make him proud.” Your gaze flicks down to the weird green tile of the shower as you murmur, trying to be smug about it and failing, “Gotta showw him you havve the bitches crawwlin’ all ovver you.”

He pushes you against the wall, kisses your mouth furiously until your gills flutter to try and breathe for you. When he drags his mouth back from yours, panting, his eyes are aflame as he says angrily, “I don’t need any more fucking bitches on my dick, Eridan. I got a little carried away, but fuck it all if I didn’t pull back because it was _wrong_.” His eyes search your face, “You never demanded that I stick only to you, stay monogamous and shit to you. Fuck, even Terezi wasn’t okay with me swapping spit with anybody besides her outside of the damn spade quadrant. I come home with someone else's tongue having been down my throat and you just say it’s fucking _okay?”_

God, he’s so beautiful when he’s angry. Lips pulled back over his white human teeth and eyes ember bright and iron hard. You lick your lips and you quash the cold feeling of self-pity in your gut as you say, “Ain’t no reason to settle for just me. You’re Davve fucking Strider. Music bends under your fingers and all the swwag that rolls offa you makes the bitches and boys swwoon. Wwhy should you keep your hot body off limits?”

He quirks a little smile at that, the closest he gets to a full smile, one you only ever see when you are both drenched in water in the shower. “You and your flattering words, Ampora…” His kiss against your lips is slow and soft and when he pulls back he says, “I’m going to shoot of a few fireworks, in his memory. I’ll be back down in a while.”

You nod and let him slip right out of the shower. The temperature of the water is luke warm at best but you take your time in washing your hair and cleaning around your gills. When you feel like you’ve absorbed like a swollen sponge, you turn the handle until it’s off and then slip out as well. Drying yourself off, you wander through the apartment you two share until you find some clean underwear and pull it onto your hips. 

You open the window to his bedroom and smirk when you hear the burst of fireworks and see the colors flickering through the glass. You pull the sheets back on the bed and lay down facing the wall.

You can’t properly sleep without him there, you don’t dare try. The horrorterrors claw at the inside of your mind whenever you do. Yet you become drowsy, thinking about his soft skin and his burning gaze and the way he controls his entire world completely, with all his rules, all his patterns, and his reactions to your actions. You smile because if there is anything Dave Strider is, besides DJ master, swag motherfucker, and crazy ninja sword master, it is the man in complete control.

Except in the shower.

Sleep dances closer to the center of your mind when Dave returns. He slides fingers that smell like gunpowder down your jawline and places a kiss on your temple as he climbs into bed behind you. He puts his arm around your torso, fingers curled at your stomach, and kisses your shoulder. He sighs over your gills as he settles. 

“Wwoulda liked to meet him,” you whisper softly, “Your Bro.”

He kisses behind your earfin and murmurs, “I would’ve liked to introduce you.”

Your blood pusher quivers in your chest like it’s full of flutterbugs. You’ve never heard him say that about anyone except his human friends. You put your hand over his on your stomach and lace your fingers between his. His breath soon becomes deep and even, rolling across your skin as he falls asleep. 

His warmth is enough for you to finally close your eyes in sleep, and with a smile, you go happily. Dave fuckin’ Strider, the closest thing you have to family or human love or matesprit, has you wrapped around his pale finger, under his control, just like every other fuckin’ thing in his life and you are happy to be there.


End file.
